


Knight's Code

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Tea, Umbrellas, spying spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry Hart has a brief audience with the Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight's Code

**Author's Note:**

> TW: I had to add a little bit of gratuitous violence, since this is a Kingsman ficlet. It's brief.  
> Beware SPOILERS for Kingsman if you haven't seen it yet.

The clouds in the sky were eggshell white, unlikely to produce rain, but Harry Hart brought his umbrella anyway. 

It wasn’t his day. Of course he looked pristine in his armor, today a charcoal double-breasted suit. But the hand-stitched selvedge at his cuffs, which gave such a careful order to his appearance, could do nothing for the turmoil of his thoughts. The bulletproof pocket square over his heart could not shield it from pain. 

Saying goodbye to Eggsy was even more difficult than he had expected, and that was just the latest problem in a list that included personal betrayal and possible world domination by an American megalomaniac. He wasn’t much looking forward to his next meeting either, but that was a lesser hardship.

Mycroft Holmes’ office was located underneath the Diogenes Club, a handsome building on the corner of a quiet, fashionable street. Mycroft didn’t often come to the tailor shop, preferring to do his business from a removed location, where he could keep his eye on the spies, diplomats, and government workers who were not a part of the elite Kingsmen circle. He was their liaison to the world. The only downside to his distance was that it made his machinations that much more difficult to track, and it was impossible to know exactly how many games he was playing at once. In his uneasy heart, Harry wondered if it might be his job one day to deal with Mycroft Holmes, the way he had dealt with so many others. It unsettled him especially because, unlike with most of his fellow agents, Harry could never decide if he liked Holmes or not.

No, he wasn’t looking forward to this at all, but at least Mycroft could always be depended upon to serve the best tea spread in London. When Harry arrived in the bleak, slate-grey office, he found Mycroft seated at his desk in front of a portrait of the Queen. He had already started working on the towering tea trolley, polishing off cranberry scones and magnificent pots of clotted cream.

“Take a seat, Harry,” Mycroft said, without glancing in his direction.

That was Holmes' little way of showing off. Personally, Harry didn’t think it was good manners to open a conversation with a power play, no matter how small, but he couldn’t resist joining in.

“Always good to see you too, Guinevere.”

If Mycroft were the sort of man to bang his head against the desk and groan, he would have done so spectacularly. But such gentlemen did not waste their brain cells, so he merely clicked his spoon against the side of his teacup. “Can we dispense with the nicknames, Harry?”

“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name…”

“Please spare me this.”

“No,” Harry smirked. “Our traditions define us.”

Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure. “Even my brother has taken up referencing it now, which is intolerable. And it hardly suits me.”

“It does when you control the chessboard. You’re an indispensable member of our operation, Guinevere, but you can’t be a knight without stirring from your arse now and then. Queens make schemes and warriors carry them out. When’s the last time you spilled any blood?”

“I think you enjoy the bloodshed too much.”

“No,” said Harry, the smile slipping from his face. “I really don’t.”

Mycroft impatiently waved a hand for him to sit. He'd lost some weight in the time since Harry had last seen him, but the hollowness made him look older. It seemed it was his destiny to look increasingly like an owl as he aged, whereas Harry continued to look more and more like a peregrine falcon. There was no question as to who was the more glamorous agent now.

For a few minutes they waited in silence, as Harry took his seat on the other side of the desk. Mycroft poured him a cup of black Darjeeling, and it was exactly to his taste: crisp, floral, with a hint of spicy musk. He’d also ordered in a plate of Victoria Sponge, which everyone knew was Harry’s favorite. So this was going to be a _very_ difficult conversation.

“What do you think of the new Lancelot?” asked Harry casually, as he chewed a piece of cake.

“Roxanne? I had her pegged from the start.”

“Did you?”

“Of course I did. She was the most skilled, loyal, and resourceful of the bunch. She deserved it. Sometimes it pays not to make a gamble, though you clearly believe otherwise.”

Harry sighed. “So you disapproved of my choice as well.”

“No, not disapproved. It’s not his fault he was at such a disadvantage from the start. I’m just pointing out that your affection for underdogs does you no favors. You like to gamble just for the sake of it.”

Maybe it was the likening of Eggsy to a dog that made Harry’s blood pressure start to climb. His smile went flinty.

“You know, Eggsy believes that we’re all aristocrats with spoons shoved up our arses. I’m beginning to think that he’s right.”

“Charming," Mycroft drawled. "You set yourself up for heartbreak, Harry. First the father, now the son. At least the young man survived this time. You know there’s a reason why I never get involved at the training stages."

Harry snorted into his tea. “Oh that’s right, Mycroft. You never get involved.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s fucking bollocks.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his swearing. Harry had always been freer with curses than most of the other Kingsmen, but even he knew that it had gotten worse within the last few months. And everyone knew why. They all wondered how long Eggsy’s influence was going to tarnish their ranks, wondered how long Harry would be haunted by yet another failed recruit. The elitism made him sick. If it hadn’t been for Eggsy, he might never have had occasion to contemplate the snobbery of his Kingsmen family. And if it hadn’t been for that cruel reminder, he might never have confronted his fellow agent with the long-buried past. Holmes was not the kind of man you threatened, even in jest.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “To what are you referring?”

“New candidate training, 1998.” Only another kingsman like Mycroft would have been able to tell how angry Harry was. His voice was only the slightest bit raised above normal speaking tone, but his jaw was tight and his neck muscles strained. “You rigged the game, Mycroft. Or am I supposed to believe that one of our gadgets magically malfunctioned at exactly the right time, hmm?”

“Tech malfunctions are Merlin’s division.”

“But it wasn’t Merlin,” said Harry. “He had no motive; he didn’t even have an agent in play. The only person with a vested interest in sabotaging the candidates was you.”

For a long time Mycroft was silent. He finished his last biscuit, dabbed the crumbs from his lips, and carefully arranged his knife and fork in a line across his plate before laying his hands on the table.

He spoke very softly. “Did you bring those suspicions to anyone else?”

“No, but I should have.”

“Why?”

“Because you were acting out of selfishness, not for the sake of the Kingsmen. You sabotaged a young agent in his prime, which is disgraceful. He could have been brilliant. He could have been a lot of help to us.”

“No,” said Mycroft firmly. “You can’t prove I did such a thing, but even if I did, it would have been in everyone’s best interest. He was selfish and reckless even then, and the last seventeen years have only enhanced those flaws.”

“Sherlock would have made a fine kingsman, and you know it.”

“He would have been a danger.”

“He would have been a _gamble_ ,’ Harry insisted. "But a tactical one. So don't you, _of all people_ , accuse me of bringing personal motives into my work."

Having said what he needed to say, Harry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. The revelation really did make him feel much better, and Mycroft looked almost chastised.

“Anyway," he said more softly, "he was the best damn fencer I’ve ever seen. So fast on his feet.”

Mycroft sighed. “He was, wasn’t he?”

“And the brilliance goes without saying. If he’d had the proper training, encouragement, and role models, I think Sherlock Holmes would have been unparalleled in the field. And from what I hear, he’d probably be much happier for it.”

“Happy?” Mycroft scoffed. “He’d have been dead in a month.”

Harry looked for a long time into Mycroft’s eyes, and was not surprised to see that they held neither guilt nor regret.

So Sherlock Holmes had become a Front Page Man, a big splash in the media. But whenever Harry saw his picture in the paper, he still remembered him as a 20-year-old candidate, a scared young agent filled with so much potential. He had been moody and a little troubled, but Harry recognized in him a true nobility that never got the chance to shine. He made it into the top three of his group, before flaming out spectacularly in the final round, when he had somehow managed to accidentally set off his gold automatic watch, tasering four people and blowing everyone's cover. It was uncharacteristic of his talent and training, and everyone had been embarrassed for him, except Mycroft. The relief in his eyes when Harry told him the news…

The man who went on to win the title of Gawain was a strong and dependable agent, but Harry often wondered how it could have gone differently.

“Well, now we’ll never know,” he said.

“No. Still, I can promise you one thing. He never would have been able to shoot the dog.”

“No, neither could Eggsy.” Harry chuckled ruefully and took a long sip of tea, draining it right to the bottom. “You know, sometimes I think we should retire that challenge. What does it really prove?”

“Loyalty.”

“No. Ruthlessness. Do we really want our agents to be ruthless? They should be protecting innocent lives, not squandering them. And they should be able to make those choices for themselves.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’ll take that under consideration. But its too late for both of them. For the record, I think your boy Eggsy will do very well for himself.”

“Do you think so?”

“He reminds me of you. He’s very—“

“Reckless?”

“Honorable.”

Harry smiled at the compliment, a rare thing from the queen of the kingsmen. But the tea party was over. He pushed his plate to the side and folded his hands on the table. Mycroft did the same. There was a chilly, serious look on his face, and Harry knew they had finally arrived at the point.

“I think it’s time we got down to business, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. “Go ahead.”

The tone of the room shifted from sedate to deadly still. Mycroft reached out and pressed a button on the edge of his desk, which emitted a pulse to temporarily freeze all sound and recording technology. Only those within hearing distance could pick up on their conversation. They were secure.

The cocoon in place, Mycroft whet his lips and began.

“I regret to tell you this. Arthur has been compromised.”

For a long moment Harry waited, studying the frown on Mycroft's face. He looked like a doctor in the waiting room of a children's hospital.

“I know,” Harry told him.

“You do?”

“Yes, of course I know. You’re not the only one who plays their cards close to the chest. You think I wasn’t going to notice that bloody scar behind his ear?”

“My mistake, Galahad.”

“Who else knows?”

“I believe it’s just you and I. I’ve been keeping Merlin in the dark, though he’ll find out eventually. Pellinore and Percival are too loyal to Arthur personally, and Mordred has been looking for a reason to undermine him for years. I trusted that you would be able to keep your personal feelings in check, to do what needs to be done.”

Harry shook his head sadly. “It’s a dark day when the Kingsmen must turn against their own king.”

“Arthur was always going to fall at some point,” said Mycroft. “Has it ever occurred to you that the Camelot references might have unintended consequences.”

“So what will we do? He belongs to Valentine now. He’s under the coercion of a madman, and he put himself there on purpose. He’s a traitor.”

“Obviously, we’ll have to deal with him. And sooner rather than later.”

"Christ, I know." Harry stroked the handle of his umbrella where it sat by his hip, all too aware what Mycroft had in mind. But he had done worse things in the name of Britain. He still would do.

“I should be the one to do it,” he said.

The owlish eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. He was like a father to me, once. Any other way just…wouldn’t be right.”

“Oh, Harry.”

“We need to keep this close, and I know how you feel about getting your hands dirty.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, then nodded grimly. “So we’re agreed?”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it when I get back tomorrow night…”

Mycroft was suddenly holding up his hand for silence, his spine very straight. He rose slowly from his chair, his umbrella clasped in his hand.

Harry stood up as well, gathering his own trusty umbrella into his arms. He closed his eyes and listened very closely to the sound that Mycroft had heard. There was a very faint breathing on the other side of the door. When he looked at the gap between the door and the floor, he saw a shadow the exact width of a person.

“Harry,” Mycroft said very calmly, “would you mind getting the door?”

“Of course.”

Harry gracefully expanded his umbrella and aimed it at the doorway. He pressed his finger into the wooden hook, activating the trigger mechanism. He sent three loud shots down the center of the door.

_BANG BANG BANG_

There was a horrified scream, a crunching sound, the clash of breaking cutlery. Then a dull thump, like a bolt of cashmere hitting the floor.

He looked at Mycroft, who had barely even batted an eyelash. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I’ll have to replace that door now.”

Harry snapped his umbrella closed and opened the ruined door to see the corpse on the other side. “And the carpet too,” he said.

Mycroft groaned. He stood next to him, looking down at the dead man who had spilled blood, tea, and a little brain matter across the hallway floor. Harry had caught him right between the eyes, and a few more places on his unremarkable suit.

“He’s one of Valentine’s,” Harry confirmed, touching the still-red scar behind the corpse’s ear. “I wonder what made him so special.”

“Nothing,” said Mycroft. “He was a computer programmer from Bristol. Just a pawn. He made a good cup of tea though.”

“How could you tell he was a programmer?”

“The thumbs.”

“Ah,” said Harry, as he stepped over the body. Someone else would clean that up and nobody would ask any questions. These little dust-ups happened at the Diogenes Club only slightly less than at the tailor shop.

Both men, having silently agreed that the meeting was now over, began moving towards the exit.

“Just out of curiosity, where are you going tomorrow?” asked Mycroft.

“America,” said Harry, making a slight grimace. “I have to run reconnaissance on some radical Christian hate group.”

“Sounds ghastly.”

“It will be.”

Mycroft escorted him down the hallway, then up the secret staircase to the club’s hidden entrance. Before he could open the door, the man put a light hand on his elbow. 

“After you aimed that gun at your dog and pulled the trigger, did you ever regret it? Did you ever have trouble looking that dog in the eye?”

Harry was surprised to be asked such a personal question, especially from Holmes. But perhaps he wasn't the only one having a rough day. As Kingsmen, sworn to stoicism and secrecy, they had no one to confide in but each other. 

“All the time,” he said automatically. It was an answer he had lived with every day since then. “Why? Do you feel regret?”

“I was never that fond of my dog.”

“No, I meant Sherlock. Do you ever have trouble looking him in the eye? Did he forgive you for what you did to him?”

Mycroft pursed his lips together, purposefully avoiding his gaze. He looked more vulnerable than Harry had ever seen him, which made him wonder what cataclysm could currently be brewing in his personal life. Harry didn't know whether or not he liked Mycroft, but after twenty-five years he damn well understood him. He would do anything for the Kingsmen...anything that didn't interfere with his one exceptional weakness.

Mycroft was vulnerable when Sherlock was dead or dying or doing drugs or about to be destroyed by a serial killer--which, to be fair, happened fairly often. Directly or indirectly, the detective was going to get his older brother killed. Harry thought that, unfortunately, that day might be coming sooner rather than later. 

“He never suspected me," said Mycroft. "But he never forgave himself for failing the test and I think that's worse. It's caused me a lot trouble over the years.”

Harry swung open the door and was surprised by the color of the sky. It was dark grey where it had been pale just half an hour ago, and already starting to drizzle. He opened his umbrella again, like a sailor hoisting a mast. The fabric was heavier than it looked. Mycroft remained under the cover of the overhang, leaning on his brolly like a cane.

“You know,” Harry said casually, “we could still use Sherlock, even this late in the game. If Valentine’s plans progress any further, we may need all the help we can get.”

“No, Sherlock doesn’t touch this."

“It could do him some good just to look into-"

“Over my dead body.” Mycroft gave him a parting smile that looked like the grin of a great white shark.

“Fine,” said Harry. With his hand on the door, he stopped one more time. “You know, Mycroft, I'm sorry to tell you this, but there’s another code of knights that you just don't live up to."

"And what's that?"

"Personal sacrifice.”

Mycroft’s smile softened, just a little. He inclined his head, in acknowledgment that what Harry said was true.

“Goodbye, Galahad,” he said.

“Goodbye, Guinevere.”

And so Harry Hart left the Diogenes Club for the last time in his life, his umbrella disappearing behind the thin veil of rain.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments make me very happy. :)
> 
> (There's a sick part of me that kind of wants to write a companion piece between Moriarty and Valentine. I can't quite conceive of it though.)


End file.
